The Girl Who Walked West
by Sabiny21
Summary: Time is being interfered with. Can the Doctor and Amy Pond figure out what's going on before the world is forever changed? A Doctor Who crossover set in the beginning of the Beekeeper's Apprentice with Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes.
1. Preface

The Girl Who Walked West

Preface

The horizon had not yet contemplated the sun when a plump rooster strutted out of his coop. The proud cock fluffed his feathers, raised his comb, and eyed the silent farmhouse in the early morning darkness. Claws dug into the dirt with an aggressive scrape and a beady black eye bounced from house to coop with a glint of mischievous light. The rooster flapped its clumsy wings and settled its body on the ridge of its coop. He raised his beak, arched his neck, and crowed his delight to the dark sky; once, twice, three times was all it took to herald in the end of the world.

The girl in the farmhouse started awake earlier than was her wont. Her room was cold, her stomach growled, and she had no desire to return to the dreams awaiting her. Mary Russell dressed in her father's suit, wrapped around her neck an ill knitted scarf that she had made with her mother, plopped an oversized cap on her head, and laced her new boots, which were already too small. Armed against the crisp spring air, she crept down the staircase, avoiding the creaky floorboards, and strode into the dark—into the cold to escape the other occupants of her home.

Mary Russell walked down the lonely lane with only the quiet crunch of her boots on the gravel to keep her company. The lane came to an end and she stopped, staring bleakly at the open vista of rolling hills that presented itself. One direction looked much the same as the next, so she turned west, away from the sea, putting her back to the sun that had not yet been seen.

A mob of sheep scattered at her approach, and then returned to their innocent munching, watching her slim form disappear down the slope of a hill with idle curiosity. The girl walked; the sheep ate, completely unaware that every pounding footstep was driving a nail deeper into the coffin of a man she would never know.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

The surf crawled up the slate beach before skittering back with its hoard of pebbles only to fling itself once again at its greatest enemy: land. Ernest sat on the coast with shovel in hand, utterly unaware of the age old battle of encroachment taking place beneath his chubby toes. His mother sat nearby, chatting with his aunt, who spoke of the distant guns in equally hushed voices. Ernest did not like the boom that echoed across the water and so he focused on his bucket and shovel and the pleasant, soothing sounds of rocks mingling with others.

When his bucket was full, he dragged the cumbersome thing over to his construction project, which would surely keep away the guns. Ernest used both of his pudgy hands to heft the yellow bucket, tipping it awkwardly onto the growing mound. This would be his bunker—he just needed more rocks. The boy dragged his pail back to his shovel and began again.

A distant boom echoed, a blinding light flared to life, and Ernest looked up, his mouth falling open with delight. His pile of pebbles had sprouted into a fine bunker: a bright blue police call box, complete with a flashing light on top. Ernest looked to his inattentive mother, and then back to his bunker. Without another thought, he abandoned his bucket to explore the efforts of his toil.

The door opened. Smoke billowed out, mingling with the chilly coastal air, and Ernest stopped, craning his neck back to gawk at a tall, gangly man who emerged from his fortress. Although, Ernest had not quite imagined that the soldiers in his bunker would be wearing such a colourful uniforms, this particular one made him squeal with delight: a red and white striped swimming costume, with the odd addition of a bow tie around the man's neck. The red headed woman who emerged on the soldier's heels had an even odder uniform than the man, and Ernest did not know what to make of the two bits of cloth around the woman's body, but he thought that she must be very cold.

"As promised—the Bahamas!" the gangly man crowed, throwing his head back and his arms up.

"This is not the Bahamas, Doctor," the red headed woman growled with a very Scottish accent. Ernest watched her dance from foot to foot, but could not decide if she was in fact cold or if this was her natural behaviour for his mother always said that the Scottish were a peculiar sort.

The man she called Doctor froze and ever so slowly lowered his arms, swivelling his head around with increasing alarm. Without warning, he dropped to his knees, put his nose to the beach, and began picking up and discarding pebbles with frantic urgency, studying each pebble with wide eyes.

"The sands have been enlarged," he stated with alarm. "Large grains of sands or—we have been shrunk, in which case, it will be awkward when we return to the TARDIS and my swimming costume returns to its natural size."

"Doctor—"

"Oh!" the Doctor exclaimed, eyes alighting on the boy at his side. "Small person, red hair, perpetual look of puzzlement. Relation of yours, Amy?"

"Doctor," Amy Pond growled.

"Large sand, small people—a rogue shrinking ray loose in the Bahamas!" Satisfied with his deductions, the Doctor hopped to his feet and extended a hand in greeting down to little Ernest who gaped up at him, oblivious to the string of drool oozing from his chin.

"Doctor," Pond cut in. "This is not the Bahamas. We have not been shrunk and the sand is exactly as it should be. This is Sussex, England."

"Ooh. How dull—not you," he added, quickly, patting Ernest on the head before orbiting the bright blue police box like a planet spinning on its axis. "What tipped you off?"

Amy pointed down the coast line to the long stretch of white chalk cliffs towering over in the distance. "Unless there is another planet with Beachy Head on it?"

"Smart, very smart, Pond," the Doctor waggled his fingers at his shivering companion and then rubbed his hands together excitedly, turning back to little Ernest. "But why here? Why did the TARDIS divert us?"

"Are you sure you didn't make another wrong turn?"

"Me?" the Doctor snorted. "I never. Don't believe a word she says, Ernest. Never trust a ginger, though you certainly look like a trustworthy sort of chap. Do you happen to know the date?"

Amy Pond rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her breasts and rubbing her arms briskly while she squinted towards the distant pier in the cool sunlight. Ernest gurgled in answer and pointed a chubby fingers across the channel.

"Ah, 1915, the first world war," the Doctor said. "Don't worry, Ernest, it will get better, not much, a bit of a rough patch and then another worse patch—let me rephrase that, it will get better-_ish_." The Doctor glanced up in time to see a woman wearing a high necked frock and wide brimmed hat hurrying towards them. "And this angry woman must be your mother—" Ever polite, the Doctor extended his hand, bringing Ernest's mother up short. Her gaze bounced from the Doctor to Amy, whereupon, she blushed mightily at the latter's skimpy attire. The very proper Englishwoman brought her hand up as well, however, it was not in greeting. A sharp palm smacked against the Doctor's stunned face. The woman turned with a huff, picked up her son, and hurried away from the indecent couple.

"Sorry about your bunker, Ernest!" the Doctor hollered after the crying infant, and then turned back to Amy. "Why slap _me_? I'm not the one who is wearing that—" Words failed him as he gestured spastically towards Amy. "_That_."

"Swimsuit," she supplied.

"Right, yes, two bits of cloth," he muttered, straightening his bow tie.

"Can we get on with our trip?" Amy chattered, jerking her head towards the TARDIS. "I'm freezing."

"Not really surprising given your attire," he murmured, striding across the slate, bow-legged and searching, before whipping out his sonic screwdriver to scan the area—lights pulsed and whirring noises commenced.

"Where did you get that from?" Amy asked.

"What?"

"Your screwdriver."

"My pocket," the Doctor replied ever so patiently.

"Where on earth were you concealing a pocket in that swimsuit—never mind, I really don't want to know." Amy Pond closed her mouth with an audible click and raised her eyes heavenward in silent supplication.

The Doctor's eyes went wide with alarm as one flashing light caught his attention. He clicked his screwdriver off and tucked it away, making a prophetic announcement to the empty beach, "Something's wrong."

"When is it never wrong?" Amy sighed as promises of heat and white sandy beaches shattered before her hopeful eyes. She scrambled to pick up the pieces by hurrying over to the Doctor, attempting to bully him back into the TARDIS. "No, no, we're on holiday, this was—_is_ supposed to be a relaxing few days so whatever it is—it can sort itself out."

"But it's not right, Amy, something is wrong—dreadfully wrong," the Doctor said, twisting nimbly out of her grasp.

"What is wrong?" Amy exclaimed, throwing up her hands, and gesturing towards the sea and distant pier. "It looks peaceful enough. There's no gigantic sharks, no squid men oozing out of the sea—"

"The Ood," he corrected, and then shook his head, waving his hands to clear the air before stepping up to meet her eye. "Don't you see, Amy, the TARDIS brought us here, to this point in time, because whatever's wrong isn't obvious. Can't you feel it?"

"I can't even feel my toes at the moment," Amy moaned.

"Come on, Pond! It's time to investigate," the Doctor said, flinging the TARDIS' door open. "But not dressed like that, or you'll start a riot."

"As if you wouldn't," Amy muttered, sourly, before darting inside.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

A spindly man with a mop of brown hair atop his head walked bow-legged down the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, a whistle on his lips as he scanned the bustle and rush of a country at war. Soldiers, nurses, grocers, messengers, and mothers with prams flowed around the strange pair, shooting puzzled glances towards the redheaded woman stomping grumpily at the man's side.

"This frock is horrid," Amy growled under her breath as she tugged on the offending garment with extreme loathing.

"We're blending," the Doctor replied, cheerfully.

"You're dressed the same as always."

"A bow tie is fashionable in any era."

"Among cavemen?"

"Now there was an era of innovation. Where do you think those two strips you called a bathing suit came from, Pond?" the Doctor said with a smug quirk of his lips.

Amy snorted, glaring at her surroundings with suspicion, searching for anything out of ordinary in a time that was anything but ordinary. She paused to squint at a newspaper stand.

"So it's April 1915 and we're in Eastbourne," she mused. "Anything of note happen?"

"Anything of note generally happens at anytime, or nothing would ever happen at all, Amy."

"You know what I mean," she said, gritting her teeth, struggling with the urge to beat her companion over the head with said newspaper.

"We're doing what we usually do," the Doctor explained, rubbing his hands together with gleeful anticipation and an all too familiar light in his mischievous eyes.

"Wander around until something attacks us?"

"You're so pessimistic," the Doctor frowned. "Time travel has rotted your brain."

"Among other things—" Amy Pond was cut short when a door opened abruptly, spewing out a tall, haggard gentleman, and a cloud of tobacco smoke, instantly labeling the store and its wares within as a Tobacconists'. Annoyed with the Time Lord at her side, she failed to notice the severe gentleman and ran directly into him, flailing back as if she had hit a stone wall. She would have fallen if not for his quick hands reaching out to steady her.

"Pardon me, madam," the gentleman offered, nodding curtly, and once he had assured himself that she was stable, removed his hands. He started to move around her, but they ended up performing an awkward dance as Amy Pond moved in the same direction, as flustered as he, until finally the gentleman stopped, with an arch of his brow, waiting with barely contained patience for her to make up her mind. Amy never had the chance, because a surprising sound rose sharply behind her, in the form of a delighted squeal. Grey eyes and green turned slowly towards the source of this ecstatic sound. The first pair of eyes held dread, and the second held shock.

The Doctor clapped his hands over his mouth, eyes wide, and spun around abruptly in equal shock, evidently hoping that someone behind him had made the sound. However, there was no one there.

"That was, erm, the chap behind me," the Doctor said, clearing his throat loudly, and then stepped eagerly up to the greying gentleman, studying the gentleman's face, his nose, his ears, his hands, as openly as if he were an insect on display. "It's you," the Doctor breathed. "Who?" Amy Pond asked.

"Him," the Doctor squealed again, pointing unobtrusively in the direction of the man who was currently scowling mightily at him. Amy Pond's mouth worked silently, concern spreading over her features, as the thought occurred to her that her alien friend's mind had finally snapped. "Sherlock Holmes!"

The gentleman in question had had quite enough, and briskly side-stepped the wide-eyed lunatic, brushing briskly past with a rude noise.

"Oh, Amy Pond, what have we stumbled upon?" the Doctor whispered as he watched the gentleman's narrow back retreat down the sidewalk and vanish into the apothecary.

"According to you, Sherlock Holmes, though I always suspected you were a few short, I never knew you were _that_ far gone." Amy muttered, eyeing the back of the Doctor's head with concern.

"Far gone? You're not the least bit excited to meet the man _himself—_the greatest mind of the human race, and most aliens for that matter?"

"Sherlock Holmes is fictional, Doctor, he never existed."

"And you call yourself English," the Doctor spun on her in a huff.

"I'm Scottish."

"Same land mass," the Doctor gestured dismissively. "He's as real as you and I are."

"The stories aren't very believable," she defended.

"Says the woman who travelled here in a Time and Relative Dimension in Space."

"Fine, he's real, and you just became as flustered as a fanboy."

"I did not!" the Doctor whispered.

"You did," Amy said, crossing her arms. "I wouldn't have thought it possible, but he intimidates you. Someone actually intimidates you besides River."

"He does not, and she does not," the Doctor defended, reaching up to straighten his bow tie.

"You idolise him." Amy Pond arched an eyebrow at the Doctor, who shifted uncomfortably, and finally, after a minute, relented, holding his forefinger and thumb two inches apart.

"Maybe a little," he admitted, quietly, and then swept his arm down the sidewalk in the direction that the Great Detective had disappeared. "But look at him! He wears a cool hat and says wonderfully witty things while solving complex puzzles that would baffle most minds." The Doctor paused to strike a proud pose. "Sound familiar?"

"Not really. And no, he was wearing a very ordinary hat, and he did not look witty in the least, he looked—ill," Amy Pond said with a frown.

"Ill," the Doctor repeated, and then realisation burst onto his sharp features, animating him with energy and despair, as he clutched his hair, pacing up and down the walk, oblivious to the stares he earned. "No, no, no, this is _not_ good, Amy!"

"What?" Amy cast around, looking for the cause of his near hysteria.

"April. It's April _1915_. Sherlock _is_ ill, he's very ill, and we just—" the Doctor paused, eyes scanning the passing faces, in search of one, who was nowhere to be found. "Where is little Mary Russell?" he breathed.

"Who?"

"His wife."

"His _what_?"

"Wife," the Doctor explained impatiently. "Soon to be, not yet, but one day—years later, you know wife, the mushy, lovey, human thing, til death do us part and til the end of time nonsense that made you so boring."

"You better hope River never hears that," Amy scowled.

"No, not River, my wi—well yes, her." The Doctor blushed, waving his hands as if to erase, or perhaps bring order to his thought patterns, and then continued. "Sherlock Holmes was supposed to meet his future wife _here, _today, at this very spot where you just ran into him. You were supposed to be her, and she ran into him because her nose was in a book. Don't you read?" the Doctor asked, pulling her briskly along the pavement, sidestepping the flow of foot traffic, and weaving on and off the kerb as motorcars and wagons dictated.

"Of course I do."

"Then surely you read her memoirs—the Beekeeper's Apprentice?" The Doctor paused, glancing expectantly at Amy, but her face was the epitome of incomprehension.

"I was more of a Twilight fan. Bees weren't really my thing," she defended.

The Doctor muttered something rude under his breath about sparkling vampires, and then pulled her down an alley only to pop his head back out, peering around the corner towards the apothecary shop. Amy did the same and the Doctor continued to explain, pulling out his sonic screwdriver to scan the streets and surrounding area.

"_I was fifteen when I first met Sherlock Holmes, fifteen years old with my nose in a book as I walked through Eastbourne, and ran straight into him,_" he quoted. "Doesn't ring a bell?"

"No, except I just did that."

"Exactly!"

"Why is it so paramount that they meet?"

"Because of the future, or rather what they do in the future, together. Although, now it's what they don't do," he whispered with horror, eyeing the spastic lights on the cylinder of metal in his hand.

"Which is?"

"They don't stop the war that literally ends all wars—along with all life. A Jihad, which is sparked in 1919 when an idiot blows up a rock in Palestine." The Doctor looked to his companion. "If they never meet, Amy, then they can't stop it and we will never be having this conversation because you will never have been born, along with everyone else you know."

"Oh," Amy gulped, and then rallied admirably. "So fine then, we'll just drag them together and solve the issue in an hour. Plenty of time to take our holiday in the Bahamas."

"Very bad idea, Pond!" the Doctor hissed. "We can't just toss them together."

"Course we can, it will go something like this: Hello Sherlock, hello Mary, shake hands, get married, save the world—wait she's _fifteen_?"

"Humans grow up very fast," he explained patiently. "Like you—one second you're a wee girl and the next you're all old and moody and no fun at all."

"Isn't he a bit old for her?"

"Nine hundred years didn't stop you from—" the Doctor wrinkled his nose, gesturing spastically between the two of them with a flutter of awkward fingers.

"Yes, all right, point taken."

"At any rate, whatever we do, whatever happens next, we mustn't -under any circumstances- give them any reason to suspect that we are time travellers meddling with their lives."

"It's never been an issue before. Why is it different with these two?"

"Because this is their minds," the Doctor began, bringing a glowy tube thingy out of his pocket and supporting it delicately in his fingers. "This is their minds on trans-dimensional space travel." He snapped the glowy tube thingy in two and all the light scattered into the air like so many fireflies. "Time does not need another brilliant madman or woman—it has me!"

"So in other words, you don't want to share your TARDIS with them?"

"Right," the Doctor admitted. "Because we all know Sherlock would want to fiddle with the TARDIS and Mary will want to drive it—which would put every starship in the Universe at risk."

"So what now?"

"We need to watch Sherlock, find Mary Russell, figure out what disrupted their meeting, and play cupid—all by tomorrow afternoon."

"What happens tomorrow?" Amy asked, slowly, recognising the tone of sorrow in the Doctor's soft voice.

"Because by tomorrow afternoon, Mary Russell's memoir is more likely to read, _I was fifteen when I first met Sherlock Holmes, fifteen with my nose in a book when I tripped over his corpse._"


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Vials sat neatly in a row, shouting their talents with eye catching labels, striving to draw a customer in with promises of limber joints and settled stomachs; whispers of enhanced love lives and congenial bliss; enticements of a life of happiness and restful sleep. All silent, sparkling, and hopeful as customers filed past, inspecting their offers.

The bell jingled, heralding a newcomer—a tall, gaunt gentleman, severe of face and grey of pallor. He removed his hat, smoothed his hair, and stepped up to the counter, speaking in low tones to the chemist who moved to help him. The chemist knew this customer well, so when the gentleman presented his list, he did not bat an eyelash at the deadly combination of his request. After all, the tall gentleman was renowned, an eccentric who kept a cabinet full of obscure poisons, so why would the chemist question one lethal ingredient among many?

The chemist moved off to fill the order, leaving the tall gentleman to peruse the shelves, collecting an array of unwanted details of those in the store around him. As unwilling as he was, he could not turn off his perceptions, no matter how exhausted he was, nor how dull of a puzzle his surroundings presented. Closing his eyes to the gleanings of raw data, he recalled that his housekeeper had left a list on the kitchen table that he had glimpsed while heading out earlier in the morning. He focused on reconstructing the list, and the letters fell neatly into place. Since it was the least he could do (considering what he planned), he might as well save the good woman a trip to town, and pick up the items for her. Grabbing a basket, he proceeded to do just that, idly collecting the desired items while he waited for his order to be filled.

Any one who entered the shop would be hard pressed to recognise the gaunt gentleman who was currently perusing the soap powder as the Great Detective, Sherlock Holmes, so few gave him a second glance, or even a first, however, there was one who entered who was looking for him—the red head from the sidewalk.

Amy Pond ducked behind a row of shelves, swinging her arms casually as she meandered her way through the apothecary, keeping one eye on the gaunt gentleman's back and the other on the vials and their labels. She drew up short when she spotted a box with a picture of two children playing on the front, while in big bold print it advertised cocaine as a cure for toothaches.

"Start them early," she muttered. As casually as possible, she stepped beside the tall gentleman, and made as if she were scanning the soap powder selection while overtly eyeing the contents of his basket for any hazardous drugs, although, if she were to be honest, every item in the shop had the potential to be deadly.

_Why did I have to draw the short straw for suicide watch?_ Amy sighed inwardly, thinking that she would have much preferred locating the mysterious future wife of the severe looking man at her side. Peripherally, she studied the Great Detective, and although she had not actually read any of the stories, she had seen a number of shows on the telly about him. She thought that the actor Jeremy Brett bore the closest resemblance to him, however, this man's hair was thinning, and the streaks of grey at his temples added a touch of reality—that of mortality, although, much as with the Doctor, she could not precisely put an age to him.

All of the shows on the telly combined could never have prepared her for the slow swivel of his head as his hawkish features turned towards her and eyes of steel glittered down, piercing her like a blade, seeing all and than some. Amy took an involuntary step back, realising that she had been staring up at him with fascination during her inspection.

"Erm—" her throat went dry and she wondered how one man could give her such pause when she had faced Daleks, Vampires, the Silence, and Weeping Angels.

"Investigating the soap powder, are you?" Amy said, lamely, instantly regretting her moronic comment when a muscle in Sherlock Holmes' jaw twitched and his lips tightened to a thin line.

Amy cleared her throat and tried again, "Sorry for my friend's reaction. He's a bit of a _fan, _but don't worry, I'm not a fan of yours at all—I mean to say, I'm sure you're a wonderful, cheerful person, and a great friend—" Through the entirety of her blathering, the eyes never relented, never left her, searching her very thoughts, until she very nearly blurted out that they had arrived in a TARDIS and that she had once shop-lifted a jar of _Nutella_ when she was fifteen. Amy bit her lip, mentally kicking herself, and finally fell silent.

The chemist behind the counter saved her from further embarrassment, as the shop keeper gestured to Mr. Holmes, informing him that his order was ready. Sherlock Holmes tersely excused himself, hastily stepping away to gather his items before exiting the shop without a backwards glance.

"Brilliant, Pond," Amy muttered under her breath.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

If the Doctor was sure of one thing, it was that in all the nooks and crannies of time, he would find Mary Russell near books, so it was a simple matter to follow his nose to that which she loved and the scent of musty paper and ink led him to the book shop. The bell jingled as he stepped inside, surveying the dreams of humankind like a child in a candy shop, flitting from one straight-backed spine to the next, running his fingers along the gold lettering and holding small, quick conversations with the pages of print.

"Been there, seen that, not nearly as nice as they say, good chap, not so good that, eww—romance—H.G, now there was a human after my own heart." And on and on he muttered, eyes darting, legs moving, hands gliding, until at last he came to the end of the shelving and spied a bespectacled slender figure leaning against a post with book in hand. The young person's scarf was crooked, the coat too big, and the oversized cap, which was plopped atop her head, named her as one person: Mary Russell.

The Doctor drew up short, pausing to study the girl with a quirk of fondness on his lips. "Now, now, little Mary, what has disrupted your timeline?" he whispered, reaching inside his coat to draw out his sonic screwdriver. He plucked a book from its brothers and held it up, concealing his screwdriver behind as he carefully scanned her. Lights pulsed, blinked once, and a large blaring red dot made him frown with concern. "You are running a bit early—not good, not good at all."

The Doctor pocketed his screwdriver, searching the book shop with a careful eye, studying organic and nonorganic alike. After determining that nothing was immediately threatening, he sauntered up to Mary Russell, straightening his bow tie with a flourish.

"Very nice fellow, Vigil, but a word of advice, don't _ever_ follow him anywhere. He makes a horrid guide."

Mary Russell blinked, and slowly lowered her copy of Virgil to warily eye the intruder who had so rudely interrupted her silent translating.

"I much prefer Virgil to Dante," Mary replied.

"Oh, Dante was no fun at all," the Doctor said, wrinkling his nose. "So mopey and serious." Blue eyes narrowed on the Doctor, studying him intently for any sign of humour.

"Are you claiming to have met Dante and Virgil or just walked through Hell?"

"All three," the Doctor brightened with a glitter of dark eyes that named him truly mad. He reached beneath his coat, and Mary wisely took a cautious step back, as he pulled out a card, presenting it to her. She squinted at the square of white.

"It's blank."

The Doctor muttered under his breath, flipping the card around to study it for a moment, before shaking it with a great deal of irritation. He looked at it again and sighed, before tucking the useless technology safely away.

"I'm the Doc—" he stuttered to a stop, recalling the girl's history with a flash of insight, and quickly changed his tactic. "Professor."

"Professor who?"

"Who, exactly."

"Yes, exactly who?"

"I'm Professor Who of—" the Doctor faltered for a moment, grasping for the first word which popped into his head. "Where, here to tell you what you've won!"

At the insane man's excitement, Mary Russell took another calculated step backwards, holding her book before her like a shield.

"And what precisely have I won, Professor Who of Where?" Mary asked, slowly, wondering if she ought to be encouraging the madman.

"An armful of books—all that you can carry."

"Why would I have won an armful of books?"

"In recognition of your scholarly pursuits and—things. All to help you enter Oxford. Right, then come on, just follow me, and I'll take you there." Satisfied with his manipulative brilliance, the Doctor rubbed his hands briskly together, and started towards the door, fully expecting Mary Russell to follow. When he noticed that she was not following, he stopped, turned and made a grievous miscalculation—he reached for her arm.


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

The spindly man limped down the sidewalk, rubbing his right cheek, which now matched the left in severity of colour. A hand snaked from a side alley and yanked him inside.

"I only have two cheeks!" he blurted out in desperation, and then instantly relaxed when he saw the familiar face of his companion.

"And they both have a lovely handprint decorating them. I take it your attempts to drag Mary Russell along didn't go so well?"

"Bow ties incite her to violence," he muttered, primly straightening his tie. "Who knew?" Amy Pond scowled at him dubiously, but chose not to comment.

"My attempt did not go so well either," she admitted. "I don't think I can follow Sherlock Holmes again without rousing his suspicion. Did you learn anything?"

"I did," he replied, proudly. Amy Pond waited with brittle patience that was on the verge of snapping. Finally, she arched a brow, demanding an explanation. "Sort of," he admitted.

"Doctor," she growled.

"Fine, something nudged her off her timeline, she's moving through it about thirty minutes too early—maybe forty-five."

"What caused it?"

"I don't know precisely, it could be any number of things. Time is vast and varied, Amy Pond, by the time I list every possibility then Sherlock will have offed himself."

"Why would he kill himself?"

"Why not?" the Doctor asked, softly. "He's bored, alone, stagnant, and he's on the verge of giving up on humankind. Sometimes, Pond, it just a takes a cheeky girl to put one back on track." Amy Pond stared silently at the Doctor, searching his ancient, shimmering eyes.

"Is that all it takes?" she whispered.

"Worked for me," he admitted. The edge of his lip quirked and a reassuring light entered his eyes—twinkling as bright and knowing as the stars.

"Well, good," she nodded, and then stepped forward to hug him tightly—an embrace which he enthusiastically returned. "And I'm not cheeky."

"Never," the Doctor snorted in her ear. He stepped back with a boyish grin and a wink in his eye. Brushing the affectionate moment awkwardly to the side, he rubbed his hands together and got back to business. "Right, then. I need to scan Sherlock, and you, Amy, need to watch Mary's house and make sure nothing is afoot—Ooooh, I've always wanted to say that," the Doctor beamed. "The game is afoot, Pond!"

Amy Pond closed her eyes, slowly bringing the palm of her hand to her forehead, wondering if the poor cheeky girl who would save Sherlock Holmes would be as irritated with her partner as she was with hers.


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Sherlock Holmes bent over his Langstrom box, and peered into the miniature society like a god surveying his domain. Satisfied with the busy hum of activity, he carefully replaced the sky to their world, picked up the canister of smoke and began walking to his next hive. His thoughts were distant, far from the rolling green and the distant grey, to the years behind, circling ever closer to the scant time remaining to him, and how he intended to spend it, but most of all, _if_ he wished to. So distracted was he, that he was not immediately aware of the warning prickle along the back of his neck—an annoying, life-saving, chill that told him he was being watched. Without turning his head, he caught the glint of metal beneath the crisp Spring sun, and a flash where there should be none on the ridge of a hill. Sherlock Holmes ground his teeth together, determining that the time he had left would not be spent suffering ill-mannered fools who were spying from the grass.

The Doctor frowned at his sonic screwdriver and flipped it closed with a sigh. He was too far away to get a proper reading on the lean figure in the valley below, aside from the fact that the man in question had just disappeared. The Doctor poked his head over the grass, surveying the swaying sea of green, and furrowed his brow in defeat. He started to stand when a voice barked from behind him, causing him to scramble forward instead.

"This is private property, young man!"

The Doctor rolled nimbly around, stretched out his long legs, and propped himself up on his elbows, arching an amused brow at the looming detective.

"Young man he says," the Doctor whispered to himself.

"You have been watching me, why?"

"I was a bit flustered in town earlier, and wanted to properly introduce myself. I'm the Doctor," he said, cheerfully, hopping to his feet and extending his hand.

Sherlock Holmes' sharp features were carved from granite, betraying all the amusement of a judge on his bench. "You intended to introduce yourself from a hilltop, while you were taking photographs of me?"

"It does seem a bit of a round about way of going about introductions now that you mention it—"

"Your camera," Holmes cut him short, holding a demanding hand out. The Doctor took this opportunity to heartily shake his hand, pleased beyond words to finally meet the human legend (again), however, the Doctor soon discovered how Sherlock Holmes had managed to survive all these years against overwhelming odds—quick as a snake he stepped forward and frisked the Doctor.

"A bit personal isn't it—hey! Wait now," the Doctor took a step forward when Holmes snatched his sonic screwdriver from his pocket, but quickly backed up at the warning look from the steely eyes. The Doctor brought his hand up short, chewing on his fingernails with worry. "Be careful with that. I really wouldn't fiddle with that too much. It's not a camera." He explained as Sherlock Holmes turned the device over in his curious hands and suddenly, hopefully, a light bulb went off in the Doctor's mind. "It's a torch."

"Young man, every British citizen has a right to privacy, especially on their own land, which you have breached," Holmes said, severely.

"Right, just turn—" However, Sherlock Holmes needed no direction, and easily located the switch that turned the sonic screwdriver ON. It flared to life with a flash of lights and buzzing.

"Oh, there you are. It's a new design. American. You know how much they like their flashy lights," the Doctor finished waggling his fingers mysteriously.

Holmes paused, looking up to arch a sharp eyebrow at the younger man, before returning his attention to the strange device.

"Right, see, not a camera—just a torch," the Doctor said, taking a cautious step forward to slowly stretch his long arm out, plucking the screwdriver from the detective's hand to wave it casually about, while he took all the readings he needed and to further distract him, he said, "Could I get your autograph by chance? You can sign my stomach."

This innocent inquiry sparked the Legend's ire, and the Doctor was treated to a terse lecture on personal rights from the man himself, whose voice climbed ever higher with every pause to draw breath while the Time Lord listened with rapt attention. In the end, the Great Detective escorted him off his land with threats of sending him to gaol if he should ever show his face again. All in all, the Doctor enjoyed himself tremendously.

The sun was falling, and it knew not if it would rise the next morning to shine down on the beginning of the end for this world. Two stalwart guardians of time were reunited in the waning light of day and the gangly man eagerly pulled his companion from the long lane leading from the farmhouse, into the cover of trees.

"Did Mary see you, Amy?" the Doctor asked of her exit from the farmhouse.

"No, I managed to avoid her—are you sure we have the right house, because _she_ looked like a _he_ to me."

"Yes, I'm sure that's her. I'm the one who isn't supposed to be able to tell you humans apart, being an alien and all. Use your eyes, Pond."

"I _was_," Amy growled.

"Did you find anything out of the ordinary inside? Cracks in the walls? Giant puppets? Clowns with laser guns?"

"Nothing so obvious, but I did find someone inside who I'm fairly sure would like to see Mary Russell dead. I knocked on the front door and a horrid little woman answered it."

"Mary's aunt."

"I handed her the psychic paper, and she thought I was a teacher from a boarding school for disruptive children come to take Mary away. She gave me a thorough tour of the house and went on and on about what a wretched child Mary was."

"Nothing out of the ordinary there," the Doctor sighed. "I managed to get a good scan on Sherlock, nothing is tampering with him—more than usual at any rate."

"Doctor," Amy began gravely, "I really think we should just tell them, or at least one of them, and get them together that way. They're not exactly the sort to be manipulated or tricked with some moronic story like we usually do."

"We can't," the Doctor said, quietly, eyeing the shadowed farmhouse. "There's always tomorrow, Amy, and I think—" A light she knew well entered his eyes. "We'll recruit some reinforcements."


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

The horizon had not yet contemplated the sun when a plump rooster strutted out of his coop for the second morning in a row. The proud cock fluffed his feathers, raised his comb, and eyed the silent farmhouse. Claws flexed while its beady black eye scanned the darkness, and then it took up its position on top of the coop to wake the world once more.

The Doctor jerked awake at the cock's crow, dislodging the straw from his hair as he tried to sit up, only to find a heavy weight resting on his chest—ginger hair mixed with bits of hay.

"Amy," he hissed, shaking her awake, or attempting to at any rate, because she only moaned, growling at him to go away.

"You're the one using _me_ as a pillow, I can't go away. Hurry up, the Fate of the world depends on your bright eyed cheerfulness." He shoved her head unceremoniously to the side and rose, darting to the barn door to peer into the chilly darkness. With his breath puffing clouds in his hands, he squinted at the silhouette on the coop before whipping out his sonic screwdriver. It hummed to life, lights flashing in the shadow of the barn door, as he pointed the tip at the avian saboteur.

"Oh, you clever devil," he whispered as a blurry eyed Amy stumbled to his side.

"Who?"

"Him, the rooster."

"A rooster is responsible for killing everyone on the planet?" Amy asked dazedly, rubbing her eyes briskly with her palms. "Does your screwdriver make coffee by chance?"

"Focus, Amy, it's not a rooster, well no ordinary one, it's an I.M.P."

"A what?"

"An Inter-cosmic Malicious Prankster, or as I like to call them: P.I.T.A's for Pain in the Arse, because they're near impossible to detect," he replied. "They hop around the Universe making minuscule, barely perceivable changes in the timestream, which causes absolute havoc."

"You mean worse than a Time Lord?"

"You're so grumpy in the morning."

"So let me get this straight, Doctor," Amy began, slowly, "an IMP disguised as a rooster has been waking up Mary Russell early, and because of that, the world will be destroyed?"

"Got it in one! Come on, Pond, we need to stop that IMP."

Two separate shadows darted from the barn; one circling around to the right and the other to the left, closing ever closer on the stout chicken coop like two hungry foxes. However, their hunt was rudely interrupted when the back door to the farmhouse cracked open, and out stepped a slim figure, covered head to toe in warm tweed in an attempt to fortify herself against the early morning chill. The two hunters froze, silently cursing the girl's efficient dressing habits, and both darted in opposite directions, hiding along side the path that would take the girl to the long lane leading to the main road. Boots crunched on the gravel, white puffs of breath swirled in the air before the slim figure who walked with her hands in her pockets and her shoulders hunched.

Amy Pond held her breath, trying to catch the Doctor's eye who was across the path from her, but his attention was elsewhere, held rapt by the small shadow that had hopped from its perch, and was slowly strutting after the oblivious girl. Mary Russell walked; the rooster marched after, fluffing its feathers, bobbing its head, and piercing her back with a glinty eye. Alarmed, the Doctor gestured wildly across the path to Amy, pointing at the rooster, throwing his arms wide and then bringing them close to his body, as if he were holding something tight. Amy looked heavenward, muttering under her breath, as the Doctor pointed from him to the girl on the pathway. Resigned, Amy gave an unenthusiastic thumbs up, and readied herself.

The girl on the pathway stopped, and so did the rooster, standing frozen on the gravel as its prey slowly turned, eyeing the avian suspiciously, before continuing her walk. Boots crunched on the gravel, the cockerel's claws scratched on the ground, and the Time Lord pointed his sonic screwdriver at the girl's feet, magnetising the eye hooks on her boots. An ineludible force drew her feet together mid-step, hurling her off balance and forward onto the ground with a grunt of surprise. While the girl was acquainting herself with the gravel, Amy Pond rushed out of her concealment, darting across the path to snatch up the vicious cockerel, clamping its neck in a vice like grip as she dove into the bushes on the opposite side, landing in a sprawl of limbs and feathers beside the Doctor.

Mary Russell fought to pull her boots apart, twisting in the direction of the loud noise, just as the Doctor demagnetised the metal on her boots. Her feet flew apart, sending her sprawling backwards again, but she recovered quickly—too quickly for the Doctor and Amy Pond to scramble away. Mary Russell rose into a crouch, scanning the empty lane for the missing rooster, knowing as she did so that so small an animal would not make such a loud crash. Absentmindedly, she waved away a buzzing bee, and edged closer to the source of the noise.

As the girl walked cautiously towards their position, Amy Pond and the Doctor shared a look of panic, both wondering how the girl would react to finding two people huddled in her hedges with a rooster. The gravel crunched, footsteps neared, a bee buzzed, and any number of bizarre stories flitted through their quick minds, however, the Doctor never had the chance to try his excuse that they were two bounty hunters catching cockerels who had escaped from their coops, because a familiar sensation swept over one human female, one Time Lord, and the slippery IMP. They vanished, leaving nothing save a circle of crushed foliage and one very puzzled girl.


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Sterile walls, sleek floors, and gleaming light blinded the Doctor and Amy Pond. Gone was the organic beneath their bodies, replaced with a cold hard surface, devoid of dirt, life, and colour. The IMP reacted first, wiggling out of its captor's arms with a flurry of claws, feathers, and then suddenly, morphed into a black, bulbous entity with a wide mouth full of teeth, and spindly limbs with an eye on the tip of its tail. The tail lashed, the IMP fled, skittering on the sleek floors in panic, only to be intercepted by a trio of human guards who pointed their lasers at the miscreant, firing in unison, and freezing their prisoner on the spot.

"Hello, Doctor, we've been tracking this IMP through time for months now. Slippery devil. Thanks for the help," a familiar voice echoed in the austere corridor.

"Captain Carter!" the Doctor exclaimed, and Amy sighed with relief, recognising the innards of the Teselecta, Justice Department Vehicle number 6018. "Look, Captain, there's no time to explain, the IMP has disrupted the timestream, it's paramount that we get this girl to head towards the channel."

"What can we do to help?" the voice asked, gravely over the intercom.

"I need you to take me to the first flock of sheep along the road, and quickly, before she catches up."

A cloud of fluffy white floated atop the rolling green of the downs. Bells clanked, heads bent, eager to munch on the fresh, vibrant grass after being cooped up for the chilly winter. One sheep among many raised its head to gaze at the thin line of red on the distant horizon to the East, chewing lazily on its breakfast. The sheep's dull attention was slowly drawn to a zig-zagging speck, buzzing spastically over the flock's collective heads. The bee was a perfectly ordinary sight on the downs, perhaps not a lone one who was venturing out so early, but still, the sheep paid it no heed and was about to dip its head again when two humans shimmered into existence where there had been only emptiness before.

The sheep's floppy ears twitched, and its black eyes blinked, in a gesture that instantly alerted its brethren. With a collective movement the entire flock looked up, pointing their heads at the strangers, and focusing their little eyes on the pair in the dim light.

"Oh, look!" the Doctor pointed at the buzzing insect. "The Teselecta is disguised as a honey bee. We've been riding around in a time travelling space bee. Four hundred and twenty-one miniature people flying inside of an android bee. How cool is that, Amy?"

"Doctor," Amy nudged him, hard, with her elbow. "Mary Russell is coming this way and you still haven't explained why we are standing in front of a bunch of sheep. They're watching us."

"Simple really," he began. "Sherlock Holmes always checks his hives in the morning and then goes for a nice walk when the weather is pleasant, so all we have to do is get Mary Russell to walk East-ish towards the channel, instead of her habitual West." The Doctor finished, staring expectantly at his companion who stared uncomprehendingly back. "Right, then, why don't I just do my thing."

"Why don't you," Amy agreed, shaking her head, as if to clear her confusion.

The Doctor turned to address the flock, rubbing his hands together, and smiling at the ruminating ovine. "Hello, even-toed ungulates! I'm the Doctor, this is my friend Amy Pond whose from Scotland, so I'm sure she's well acquainted with some of your fuzzier cousins."

The redhead from Scotland looked slowly over to her companion and then back to the sheep who continued to chew lazily on their grass while they stared attentively.

"Don't be rude, say hello, Amy," he whispered.

"Erm—hello," Amy said, giving a little wave.

"I apologise about interrupting your nice breakfast there, but I have a very, _very_, important favour to ask. In fact, it's so important that the Fate of your world, this world and all your lovely green grass rests on your fluffy white heads. No pressure or anything, but well—yes, I'll be honest, there is pressure, a great deal of it, so what you decide now will determine the course of six billion human lives, to say nothing of your barns and bells."

The flock continued to stare, bulging cheeks moving in a slow, steady circle.

"There is a human girl who is walking this way," the Doctor continued, pacing nobly before their eyes, while his voice rose into the countryside with conviction. "It's vital that she walk the _other_ way. So I ask of you, my good ovine friends, to stop her at all costs—to draw a line with your collective hooves at this very spot, gather your courage, and declare that she shall not pass!"

"Baa," one of the sheep replied.

"Splendid!" The Doctor clapped his hands together. "Right, then, Amy, let's leave the sheep to save Earth."

"Doctor, are you sure—"

"Trust me, Amy Pond," he said, clapping her on the shoulder. He turned back to the flock, gave a little bow, and said, "Shrink us up, Captain."


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Dusting herself off, Mary Russell continued down the lonely lane with only the quiet crunch of her boots on the gravel to keep her company, and a nagging feeling that she had missed something profound, but the bushes had been empty and she chalked her fall up to pure clumsiness. At the end of the lane, she came to a familiar sight and stopped, staring bleakly at the rolling vista that stretched as far as the eye could see. One direction looked much the same as the next, as it did every morning, so she turned West, away from the sea, putting her back to the thin red line on the horizon.

She slipped her book out of her pocket and caressed the spine, eager to continue translating her new purchase, which she had bought the day before. Dawn was approaching; the blackness of night giving way to the light of day, enough to read by at any rate, so as she walked she squinted down at the dim print, letting her feet lead her down the familiar dirt path.

Only her feet were eventually brought up short, and around the pages of her book, she noticed many legs which were attached to many hooves. Mary Russell blinked, and tore her eyes from Virgil to find herself standing in the middle of a mob of sheep. Bells jangled as they milled about, pressing themselves together and bumping against her legs, nudging her backwards. One of the four legged mammals had the audacity to nip at her book and she took a hasty step backwards. A swell of fluff poured into her vacated spot, herding her out of their four legged group. Mary Russell politely complied, backing up, and made to go around the flock, only like a stream of water flowing around a rock, the sheep shifted, blocking her path.

Another set of teeth nipped at her book, and she held it higher, glaring through her spectacles at the ovine terror below. Moving quickly, she circled back around, trying the other direction, only to be thwarted once again—the cloud of fluff flowing in the same direction, nudging her back, staring with dark, accusing eyes. Narrowing her own, she darted in the opposite direction, making to go in a wide, roundabout way, however, a symphony of bells jingled in alarm as the sheep surged as one, impeding her progress.

Mary Russell eyed the sheep warily and then slowly backed up to see if they would follow. Sixty-one sets of eyes watched her, but made no move to match her backward progress. Feeling as if the world was slightly off kilter this morning, she glanced over her shoulder and saw the rising sun to the Southeast. It was bright and brilliant and the horizon was on fire with a swirl of red and gold. The girl decided that the sunrise looked far more hospitable than a flock of questionable sheep. She turned in the direction of the rising sun, put her nose back into her book, and walked towards the warmth of salvation.

A united cheer echoed on the bridge of the Teselecta as the girl turned towards the channel. Caught up in the high spirits, the Doctor pulled Amy into a celebratory bear hug, but Amy Pond appeared dubious.

"They still haven't met, Doctor."

"Are all time traveling humans so pessimistic?" the Doctor turned to Captain Carter in question and the stern faced officer of the Justice Department nodded.

"She does have a point, Doctor."

"See," Amy Pond said, arching a pointed brow at her companion.

"Fine then," the Doctor sighed, picking moodily at his sleeve.

"Steady on course, ensign," the Captain ordered, and the android honey bee bobbed after the oblivious girl who had her nose in a book.

As flying went, this was a slow, ponderous journey, made all the worse by the level of building anticipation and dread as the girl read her way towards the sea and sunlight.

"You don't think she's going to walk off a cliff do you?" Amy asked at length. The Doctor's only reply was to chew on his nails, eyes fixed on the view offered from the bee's five large eyes.

A tense half-an-hour passed before hope finally came into view. The girl continued to walk, and the figure sitting on the hillside watched her approach.

"Is she going to run over him?" Amy asked, incredulously, eyeing the acres of empty grassland before coming back to the single occupant, taking up a meagre square foot of space. The Doctor gripped Amy's arm, eyes widening with every step the girl took towards the lone man on the hillside.

The girl nearly stepped on Sherlock Holmes—would have if he had not cleared his throat, instead, the girl's book flew in the air and the crew of the Teselecta buzzed around the pair as their personalities clashed, charging the air with vibrant wit and aggrivation.

"Doctor," Amy leant close to whisper in his ear, "they look on the verge of trouncing each other. I don't think this is going well at all."

"Watch and listen, Amy Pond," he whispered back, never taking his eyes off the scene unfolding before them. "You see, in all of time, of all the variant possibilities, and alternate universes, _they _are a fixed point. No matter the century, the age, or the universe, these two brilliant minds always find each other, because one is not complete without the other and it's a dull life indeed when your life is only half full."

"If I didn't know better," Amy said. "I'd say you were getting all romantic, Doctor. I'm telling River."

"Oh, I'd say she already knows," the Doctor winked, but any further conversation was interrupted when the girl ripped off her cap, revealing two, long plaits that slithered over her shoulders. Captivated, the crew of the Teselecta watched as the Great Detective threw back his head and dissolved into helpless laughter.

Conversation resumed, of an amiable nature between the reunited minds, and the time travelling android honey bee would have lingered if not for a hand with a paint brush reaching towards it. Alert Sirens flashed, the Captain yelled for the pilot to take evasive manoeuvres, but the hand was too precise and a glob of blue paint blinded the crew's observation windows, sending the bee veering wildly to the side.

"Wait, what happens next?" Amy asked, glaring at the smear of blue paint dripping down the windows. "Can't you just turn on the windshield wipers or something?"

"We don't have any," the Captain admitted.

"No, windshield wipers?" the Doctor asked incredulously. "You're telling me that a time travelling space ship that can morph into any shape was equipped with a miniaturising ray and teleportation device, but no windshield wipers?"

The Captain spluttered.

"The TARDIS has them," the Doctor proudly pointed out. "Ah, well, come on, Pond, back to the box. We don't want to pry into their business too much, they're a bit touchy about their privacy. And you have to admit, the start of little Mary Russell's memoirs will have a much better ring to it."

"_I was fifteen when I first met Sherlock Holmes, fifteen years old with my nose in a book as I walked the Sussex Downs, and nearly stepped on him?"_ Amy said, testing the words, and from the Doctor's delighted face, she gathered that he found the slight alteration in the timestream acceptable.

The End


End file.
